


katáthlipsi

by rissi (fullhousecast)



Series: Tumblr Requests [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, spider son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15433068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullhousecast/pseuds/rissi
Summary: Peter was sick of choking on pills that did jack shit. He flushed them down the toilet and hid the empty prescription bottles.It’ll make no difference, right?—A mutated healing factor is certainly beneficial in many aspects- too bad it fucks with medicine.





	katáthlipsi

**Author's Note:**

> sensitive material discussed - please read with care. this fic is a culmination of multiple requests.

**_Patient Health Screening Questionnaire_ **

**I feel little interest or pleasure in doing things.**

 

> No days // Most days // More than half the days // Nearly every day

 

 _That’s easy,_ Peter thought _._ He circled ‘nearly every day’.

 

**I often feel down, depressed, or hopeless.**

 

> No days // Most days // More than half the days // Nearly every day

 

He shifted, the tissue paper topping the examination table crinkling beneath him. ‘Nearly every day’.

 

**Feeling bad about yourself - that you are a failure to your family/have let others down.**

 

> No days // Most days // More than half the days // Nearly every day

 

‘Nearly every day’. May chuckled at something- presumably on her phone- from her seat behind him.

 

**Thoughts that you would be better off dead, or hurting yourself in some way.**

 

> No days // Most days // More than half the days // Nearly every day

 

Before he could stop himself from lying, he circled ‘no days’, slid off the examination table, and set the clipboard onto the doctor’s desk. Him circling ‘nearly every day’ would be a one way ticket to mental health inpatient. He sat back onto the table, shifting uncomfortably in anticipation.

 

His doctor entered soon after. He greeted her and gave her as genuine a smile he could muster.

 

She smiled back. “Hey, you two! You’re in for a med check, correct?”

 

Peter nodded. His doctor sat at her computer.

 

She frowned as she logged his answers. Peter grew more restless. May gave his arm a squeeze, sensing his nervousness. It took all of Peter’s willpower not to bat her hand off of him.

 

His doctor stopped typing, but she continued to frown at the screen. “In comparison to your last check, you’re at an eight on the scale.”

 

“An eight?” May repeated. “Is that good or bad?”

 

“We rate a ten as the worst.” She hit a few keys. “You were at a seven last time, so that’s not too severe of a jump- are you still on that fifteen milligrams of Prozac?”

 

“Yep.” His head felt numb.

 

She clicked her tongue in thought for a moment. “Would you be comfortable upping the dose to twenty?”

 

The weakness in his head began to seep into the rest of his body. “I don’t know…”

 

“You need to get this under control, Peter,” May cut in. “Trust me- I don’t want you on a super high dose, but you have to be able to function.”

 

Peter rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. _Too bad my shit brain can’t keep up with my life. It’s pathetic that I can’t be functional on my own._ “I mean, sure- it’s worth a try.”

 

The doctor smiled at him, ingenuine and professional. “I’ll order the prescription.”

 

—

 

Three weeks passed on twenty milligrams daily. No change.

 

 _“Are you getting enough sleep?”_ Tony had asked him one day.

 

When the fourth week hit, Peter took one of his old fifteen milligram gelcaps alongside his new twenty milligram prescription. A month on thirty-five milligrams yielded no improvement to his mood.

 

 _“I’m getting worried about you,”_ Tony had admitted. Peter had shrugged him off with some half-assed excuse about school stressing him out.

 

Another month; fifty. His well-being was plummeting substantially.

 

_“Serious question- are you okay, kid?”_

 

He had to pause and think. _“Probably.”_

 

By the time the third month hit, Peter was sick of choking on pills that did jack shit. He flushed them down the toilet and hid the empty prescription bottles.

 

_It’ll make no difference, right?_

 

_—_

 

If being on medicine still left him depressed, being off medicine pushed him right over the edge.

 

The first few weeks were no different. He struggled to keep his depression-induced frustration in, but he was still able to contain himself from snapping at people. Tony sensed that Peter was in a seemingly permanent no-banter mood, so he stayed silent whenever they worked together.

 

It was approaching a month without meds when Peter transformed from pessimistic to fully apathetic towards living.

 

He knew there was some sort of Freudian term for giving up, but he couldn’t recall; rather, he didn’t care to recall.

 

Visits with Tony were slowly becoming an interrogation about the cause of his negative attitude. Tony’s questions were becoming less palliate and more direct. His mentor was fucking _unrelenting_ on this specific day.

 

Peter knew he was being watched as he halfheartedly spun on his stool. He didn’t bother to question why he was being stared down.

 

“Well?” Tony finally said, breaking silence. He walked to the side of the workbench opposite Peter, taking the other free stool.

 

Peter raised his eyebrows at his mentor, prompting him to continue.

 

Tony clicked his tongue as he sighed in frustration. “You’re smart enough to know what I’m gonna say.”

 

“I can’t answer a question you refuse to ask, Mr Stark.” The pejorative glare he got from Tony didn’t shake him into relenting.

 

“Mr Stark-“

 

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Tony asked. “And before you reply with some smart-ass comment, you know what I mean. Something’s been off for months.”

 

 _I can’t complain about antidepressants to Tony Stark. I just can’t._ “I’m just swamped. School’s been eating me alive- I have too many commitments, I guess.” _Was that answer not good enough?_ Peter wondered when Tony’s frown deepened. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

 

Tony shook his head distractedly. “Do you think putting Spider-Man on hold will help you focus?”

 

Peter, for the first time in months, felt something other than indifference- panic. “No!” He winced at the pitch of his voice. “Please don’t take the suit again!”

 

Tony’s brow furrowed, raising his hands defensively. “Woah- it was just a suggestion, kid. No need to get worked up.”

 

Peter’s stomach sunk with humiliation. He felt he could no longer look at Tony, so he dropped his gaze to the table top.

 

Tony seemed to sense the shift in mood. “Peter…” He promptly trailed off.

 

_He sees me as a kid who can’t handle his shit. Telling him about my stupid problems will only make it worse._

 

He grabbed his book-bag and staggered to his feet. “I’m gonna-“ He stopped to gesture at the door.

 

“Yeah.” Tony absentmindedly drummed his fist on the workbench. “I’ll see you later.”

 

—

 

The year prior, Peter swore to himself that he’d never touch the blade he kept in his desk drawer again. On that day, it was like he never stopped in the first place.

 

He had always imagined his reunion with self-harm to be nearly poetic. He had expected tearful, disappointed mourning for his many months clean from cutting. When the moment actually came, it was calm and comfortable.

 

He had no outward reaction save for the occasional wince as he repeatedly tugged the worn edge over his hip-bone. The cuts he drew intersected through old scar tissue, quickly closing and scabbing over on part of his healing factor. When the skin on his right hip became raw, he migrated to his thigh and eventually stopped right above his knee.

 

He counted twenty-four cuts. He stepped in the shower as soon as he finished, as was his routine before he stopped. The hot water made the wounds burn. He continued to up the temperature, skin flushing red.

 

—

 

He fell into a routine.

 

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were all free game to cut. The ‘restricted’ days were there to allow time for healing.

 

Scar tissue was beginning to accumulate into keloids on his hip. In order to limit this, he started to cut the rest of his body- something he previously would never do. His ribs, stomach, arms, calves, and shoulders all became a blank slate.

 

Clothing became a painful nuisance. The drag of denim over freshly split skin was especially unbearable. Long sleeve t- shirts, while comfortable, had him constantly checking for a cut peeking out from his sleeve. Thick jackets has less margin for exposure, yet had potential to breed suspicion as it was a stupidly hot summer.

 

He began to avoid suit fittings, a near impossible feat with how hard Tony was working on the Iron Spider.

 

“Don’t you have my measurements on paper?” Peter asked one day.

 

Tony scratched something out on a piece of paper. “I _had_ them, but I think you might have lost weight.”

 

Peter sucked air through his teeth. _It’s not my fault that I don’t have an appetite._

 

“The nanotech’s algorithm is extremely precise,” he continued. “Titanium doesn’t behave like the fabric- it can’t tailor itself like a second skin. It’s looking a little loose around your waist, so just lift your shirt up and I’ll grab a quick measurement.”

 

All sensation left Peter. All he could feel was sudden nausea and the numerous cuts he made on his obliques the night prior.

 

“Peter?” Tony prompted. Peter was vaguely aware of Tony’s expectant gaze, although he was more concerned about the corner he was suddenly backed into.

 

He chose his words carefully. “Would it be possible to do it over my shirt?”

 

“That would add extra diameter,” Tony responded, voice suddenly tinged with suspicion. “Is there an issue?”

 

Peter wasn’t in the mindset to respond. He offhandedly noted that his lip began to quiver. _It’d be whack if I cried. Please, Peter- don’t be a little bitch, just this once._

 

“Did you get hurt? Is that it?” Tony was walking closer now.

 

 _Back up. Walk away. Run._ He was frozen to the spot. Tony seemed to take his silence as confirmation.

 

Tony was a good step away from him. His mentor looked uncharacteristically hesitant as he reached out a hand. He delicately hooked a single finger under the hem of Peter’s shirt and lifted it a bit. The man frowned as the first few rows of cuts were exposed.

 

 _Fuck,_ Peter thought. _Busted._

 

Tony stumbled over his words. “These- these look...“ The confusion melted from his features, and realization took its place. “Methodical.”

 

Tony let the shirt fall. He held Peter’s gaze, pursing his lips in shocked rumination. When Tony brought a tentative, comforting hand to the crown of Peter’s head, the kid broke down.

 

He was quick to shift the hand to Peter’s temple, drawing him into a sort of side-hug. Peter’s arms snapped around him, his guttural sobbing muffled by Tony’s grease-stained t-shirt. Tony only held the kid, tucking his head under his chin and letting him cry. Peter hadn’t cried in months- he figured that he really didn’t have a reason to. He was depressed as all hell, sure; yet he coped through excessive sleep. He would rather be unconscious than confront his tears.

 

He always had a feeling that Tony would eventually find out. He anticipated that the genius would scold him in some way, whether through yelling or quiet disapproval. Either way, he thought that Tony would rid himself of the burden; disown him as a protege.

 

He hadn’t realized that Tony led them both to a couch until they were both sitting. The man remained silent. Peter scrubbed the tears from his face to the best of his ability, attempting to get his breathing under control.

 

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed.

 

Tony shook his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry over.” Peter could see him digging his nails into the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry that I didn’t notice sooner.”

 

“There’s really no way you could have,” Peter muttered, dipping the side of his thumb into his waterline to catch a stray tear.

 

Tony huffed, almost childishly. “I _could_ have, though!” His clenched hand began to bounce against his thigh. “You’ve been off for months- I was just too stupid to see why. How long have you been doing this, Peter?”

 

“Uh-” he stopped to think. “No more than a few weeks?” _Please don’t get mad at me-_ “I was a year clean before that.”

 

Tony’s eyes slid shut as he drew in a long, quivering breath. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Please stop apologizing for nothing.”

 

Tony ignored him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

 

“Mr Stark, please-”

 

“My kid has been suffering for months, and I’ve done shit to help!” Tony stood and began to pace, short and staggered.

 

“It’s my medicine,” Peter blurted out.

 

He stopped pacing. “Your medicine?”

 

“Yeah.” he briefly chewed his tongue. “I’ve been on Prozac since I was fourteen. My powers fuck up the medicine, I guess.”

 

“Don’t say ‘fuck’,” Tony absentmindedly chastised. “What, does the healing factor make them have opposite effects or something?”

 

 _Amazing how fast his mood can change,_ Peter silently mused. “No. I guess my body can’t metabolize it- is metabolize the right word?- and now taking anything is useless.”

 

When Tony didn’t respond, Peter’s nerves bubbled once again. “I hate complaining about something so stupid,” he admitted. “Sorry I made it awkward.”

 

Tony looked at him, slack-faced and blank-eyed. “Is that why you haven’t told me about this?” He asked. “You think it’s stupid?”

 

“I mean, it kind of is.” He laughed a bit. “I really didn’t see any point in bothering you with my problems, I guess.”

 

“Okay, nope; let’s get this clear- nothing you could ever say would bug me.” His stern voice dropped into one more reassuring. “Peter, the fact that you’re hurting yourself makes me sick with worry. You’re one of the few people on this earth that I wouldn’t be able to live without, and I need you to know that.”

 

Peter willed himself not to cry again.

 

“We’re going to make it better. Hell, I’ll manufacture an antidepressant for mutated immune systems if I have to!” He smiled when Peter laughed. “I can’t offer you a magic fix, but I’m gonna try my damned hardest to help you in any way I can.”

 

Peter didn’t answer as he threw himself into a hug.

 

\--

 

The first few weeks were an adjustment.

 

Tony swept his room for sharp objects. Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for worrying the man when he found nothing but the dull, dirty blade _(“Jesus, Pete- this thing could give you tetanus or something!”_ He had scolded). He bought the kid the most expensive scar cream he could find, but Peter turned it down _(“I dunno, I think the scars kinda give me character?”)._

 

The next few months were a whirlwind of prescriptions.

 

He went through a multitude of different medicines, each as ineffective as the last: Lexapro knocked him out; Zoloft made him vomit; Celexa stripped him of control over his emotions. Settling on Effexor helped him regain some of his energy, but it certainly wasn’t a cure-all. He was thankful that May and Tony were so patient through the adjustment period.

 

The craving for his blade didn’t necessarily subside. There were solitary, sleepless nights of boredom where all he wanted was the long-gone industrial blade that he kept in his desk for years. There were nights when he caved; nights when his anxiety got so bad that he couldn’t help but swipe a paring knife from the kitchen after may was fast asleep.

 

When Peter caved, his support system was there to keep him upright. Through what he considered to be meaningless brooding came the reassurance to heal.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos help me tremendously!  
> fic requests are open on my [tumblr!](https://iron-arachnid.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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